


Exile

by LtLJ



Series: Retrograde Extras [2]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-07
Updated: 2007-04-07
Packaged: 2017-10-03 04:31:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LtLJ/pseuds/LtLJ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John knew this was just the resignation stage of the five steps of being screwed process, and he expected to loop back around to rage later, but for now it was better this way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exile

**Author's Note:**

> Set between "Colorado Springs" and "Vegas."

John tried to go to his next meeting, only to find that Elizabeth had given him the rest of the day off. This left him with two options: he could go to the guest room he was using in the SGC and stare at the concrete walls in absolute silence or he could go to their assigned hotel and stare at the TV with the sound off. The hotel won.

He was in the SGC parking garage waiting for a driver when Mitchell caught up with him. He was in civvies, too, jeans, t-shirt and windbreaker, like he was going home for the day. Despite evidence to the contrary, John still had a moment of faint hope that maybe Mitchell didn't know yet.

"So..." Mitchell said, and then winced.

_No such luck,_ John thought sourly. He hadn't realistically thought he would just vanish from the SGC at some point in the next week or two with no one noticing or commenting on it, but he had hoped that maybe the public humiliation aspect of the whole situation wouldn't start until at least tomorrow. "Yeah," he commented, looking across the garage and wondering where the hell the driver was. "I've got the day off, what's your excuse?"

"Yeah, well..." Mitchell scratched his head and obviously gave up on trying to act as if he had just happened to run into John in the parking garage of Cheyenne Mountain on a morning when the entire SGC was frantically busy. "I was just in a meeting with General O'Neill and Dr. Weir, and the General thought I should--"

"Keep an eye on me?" John lifted a brow, keeping his expression noncommittal. He hated having his movements watched, he hated being treated like somebody who needed a fucking keeper. "Make sure I don't steal the _Daedalus_ on the way to the Best Western?"

Mitchell shrugged. "Or we could go to lunch."

  
***

  
John was reluctant. He didn't want to be trapped into any conversations about... Okay, he just didn't want to be trapped into any conversations, period. But Mitchell had a 1965 Ford Mustang Fastback, and just looking at the sleek black metal was sucking John's soul out of his body, but in a good way. He had forgotten how much he liked hot cars. Deciding he could always escape by calling a cab, John gave in.

They went to a place called O'Malley's Bar and Grill. "Teal'c and I come here sometimes," Mitchell said, paging through the menu. "Daniel and Sam and O'Neill got in a fight here once and broke the place up, so they're not exactly welcome anymore. That was a little before my time."

John shrugged, not really in the mood for war stories. It was early for lunch and he wasn't hungry anyway; they ended up with chips and beer.

John wasn't talking about it and Mitchell wasn't talking about it and it was like trying to ignore a giant elephant sitting at the bar, which was a lot harder than John expected. Maybe because after the past few months in Atlantis, he knew Mitchell too well, and Mitchell knew him. Whatever, he still didn't want to talk about it.

But the Athosian wine John was used to now must not be as potent as it seemed, because it wasn't that many beers later when he found himself saying, "It's a good thing we brought Teyla." He stopped, thinking _Shut up, John._ In the unlikely event Jackson hadn't twigged to this aspect of the situation in Atlantis, he didn't want to draw a big red circle around it for the SGC.

But Mitchell nodded, making wet circles with his beer bottle on the table. "She can vouch for Dr. Weir if they have to go back without you, and the Pegasus contingent interprets it as her trading you off for a ship-full of supplies? And comes unglued?"

Okay, fine, so there was already a big red circle around it. John looked away. "That wouldn't happen."

Mitchell shrugged. "Jackson thinks it would. He said Halling and the core group of Athosians would believe Weir and support her, but they'd try to stonewall the SGC to get you back, refuse to work with anybody else who was sent, and basically cause all kinds of problems. The other recruits and the refugees would freak out. Like the Athosians, they don't come from cultures with any kind of career military, and they don't get the idea of reassignment; after the Trust attack, they're afraid of Earth, they don't trust the SGC, and they know you wouldn't leave Atlantis of your own free will. Jackson says, fast or slow, it'd tear the place apart." Mitchell knocked back the last of his beer. "I know he's right. Hell, I could tell that the first day I was there."

John leaned back, signaling the waiter to bring another round. "And that's not what the Pentagon and the IOA want?" He knew the men who were pushing for his reassignment weren't thinking about it like that. They were playing right into the hands of the people who were, but John doubted they gave a crap about that. He knew the guys who wanted him out couldn't conceive of the idea that the expedition actually might want him to stay; the self-righteous bastards thought they were doing Atlantis a favor. "So they can clear the city out and put in a whole new expedition?"

"Some of them might want it," Mitchell admitted, staring at the label of his bottle with too much concentration. He looked up. "You know, I know Weir and General O'Neill have a video conference scheduled with the IOA this afternoon; this could blow over by the end of the day."

John smiled grimly at the tabletop. If Elizabeth thought O'Neill could fix this with a phone call, she wouldn't have told John about it at all. "Want to bet on that?"

Mitchell shrugged, shifting his beer around again. "All I'm saying is...don't burn any bridges, here."

"I don't need advice about how to act when I'm being screwed over," John said, and when the waiter brought the next round, he ordered a bottle of tequila.

  
***

  
Things progressed from there. Mitchell felt obliged to keep up with John, until they were both halfway under the table. It could have gotten acrimonious, but Mitchell was apparently an "I love you, man" drunk, and John was already so depressed that killing the bottle of tequila took him to the point of nearly complete inertia. Then he flashed on his life post-retirement as a commercial airlines pilot, put his head down on the table in the little puddle of condensation from his water glass, and tried to drown.

That was when the manager invited them to leave.

They spent a little while looking for Mitchell's motorcycle in the parking lot. "Wait, wait," Mitchell said, swaying a little. "We brought the Mustang."

"I'll drive," John volunteered. The wind was cool and walking around in the parking lot had gotten him out of the inertia state and back to the point where he was capable of making really stupid decisions. Knowing this didn't seem to help.

Mitchell frowned in concentration for a long moment. "It's probably a bad thing that that sounds like a good idea."

"Why?" John wanted to know, and then Mitchell dragged him back inside and got the bartender to call them a cab.

Through the cab ride and walking up to the apartment, John was mostly luggage. But once they got inside and Mitchell kicked the door shut, John rallied again.

He thought, _what the hell,_ then grabbed Mitchell and kissed him, flattening him against the door with a thump.

He and Mitchell had been together, once, a spur of the moment thing fueled by a near-death experience, or at least a near-capture-by-Genii experience that would have probably been a lot worse than just death. John had filed it under "what happens in Atlantis stays in Atlantis" but that had been when he was planning to stay in Atlantis.

"No, no," Mitchell said, grabbing his shoulders and holding him off. "We're not having sex. You're too drunk."

Like that was news. John snorted. "Oh, and you're not?"

Mitchell let go of his shoulder to thump him in the chest. "I'm drunk but nobody on this planet is as drunk as you, man."

_I'm never getting off this planet again,_ John thought, and the thought was a little stab through the heart. "Fine, fuck you." He pulled away, stumbling and almost falling backward over a chair.

Mitchell grabbed his shirt, pulling him upright. "No, not now, maybe later."

Mitchell was drunk, but John was drunk off his ass, so he couldn't resist much when Mitchell dragged him down a hallway, and dumped him in a bed. "What was wrong with the couch?" John demanded.

"We're not having sex on the couch." Mitchell collapsed next to him, flushed and breathless.

"Okay, fine." The bed was probably better, anyway. John rolled onto his stomach and tried to push himself up, but Mitchell pinned to the bed with a knee in the small of his back. John protested, "Hey, this is not working for me."

"That's the idea." Mitchell nearly swayed over off the bed as John tried to push up again, but recovered by grabbing the headboard. "If you just hold still for a minute, you'll probably pass out."

"Grr," John muttered, or something similar. He lay there under protest, gritting his teeth and seething. But his head was swimming and what he could see of the room was starting to do sickening loops, so maybe Mitchell had a point. His eyes started to drift closed, then he heard a cell phone buzz.

"Oh, crap," Mitchell muttered. Keys jingled as Mitchell rummaged through his pockets for the phone. He found it and half-collapsed on top of John, so he was sprawled across him and they were sort of eye to eye. Mitchell showed him the screen with the caller ID code. "It's General O'Neill," Mitchell whispered, though he hadn't answered yet because the phone was still buzzing. "Dammit, I hope Earth's not being invaded by anything."

John rolled his eyes. "That sounds like somebody else's problem."

Mitchell pressed the button, cleared his throat, and said, "Yes, sir!"

There was a pause. "Yes, sir, Major Sheppard's here." Slipping back momentarily into drunk mode, Mitchell fondly ruffled John's hair. John remembered he was pissed off and elbowed him in the chest. Mitchell grunted in pain, and added, threateningly, "Sir, did you want to speak to Major Sheppard?"

"Fuck," John muttered, and subsided, trying to burrow under the pillow.

There was a longer pause. Apparently General O'Neill did not want to speak to Major Sheppard. Mitchell continued, "Yes, sir. O'Malley's Bar and Grill, sir. Yes, they had the cheese fries, sir. No, sir, we didn't get you a to-go box. Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Goodbye, sir." Mitchell snapped the phone closed, slumping over. "I think he knew I was drunk. He put me on speaker phone. I could hear Teal'c and Sam laughing in the background."

John had a small knot of pain between his eyes telling him the hangover was starting, and his clothes were damp with sweat. He was on Earth, drunk, and trapped under a lieutenant colonel. "It's like I never left," he said aloud.

"Hmm?" Mitchell rolled off him.

"Nothing," John said, remembering he was drunk and punchy. He reached over his head, groping along the side table, hoping to be able to reach a beer, then remembered they hadn't actually brought any back. "Weren't we having sex?"

"No," Mitchell explained patiently. "We're too drunk."

He probably had a point there. "I should get back to the hotel."

Mitchell pushed himself up enough to find John's mouth. Stubble rasped against John's cheek and the kiss was deep and tequila-flavored, then Mitchell shifted off him. "Later," Mitchell sighed.

"Right," John agreed, and fell asleep.

  
***

  
Sometime later, John woke up sprawled on his stomach, in an unfamiliar bed, sweat sticking his t-shirt to his back. He had a dry throat and a tight band of pain around his head. _The hell?_ Then he remembered. _Right, Mitchell's apartment, failed attempt to have drunken sex._ He pushed himself up on his elbows and squinted at the clock radio. It was six in the evening. God, he hoped he hadn't been too much of an asshole.

The bedroom was a little bare, with the taupe-painted walls and tan carpet the apartment had probably come with, but there were battered paperbacks stacked on the nightstand, and some nice framed photographs on the wall. A couple were landscapes, some place with lush green fields that went forever, and one was a shot of Earth and the moon from space that could have been a NASA photo. Or maybe it had been taken from the _Daedalus_ or one of the other BC-303s.

John dragged himself out of bed and found the attached master bath. He drank a lot of water from the tap and stole some mouthwash, and felt less like a visitor from the Land of the Living Dead. He wandered into the living room.

This was the first normal apartment he had been to since they had come to Earth. Mitchell had a leather couch and matching chair, a thick rug on the hardwood floor, lamps and nice wooden tables and a big flat screen TV. It had the look of a place arranged by someone who lived alone and didn't expect to be around much, but the full bookcases across one wall made it homey. There were novels and biographies, old textbooks, magazines, CDs and DVDs. There were also more photos, some obviously family groups, some snapshots of Mitchell with various Air Force buddies, some of SGC personnel. There was a shot of Mitchell with the rest of SG-1, made notable because Teal'c was solemnly making the bunny ears handsign behind Mitchell's head. There was another photo of SG-1 with a woman John didn't recognize, though she was wearing a uniform. She had a strong attractive face, dark hair in pigtails, and a bright grin.

John's quarters on Atlantis were barren compared to this. He had a couple things the Athosians have given him and a couple things he had picked up offworld, and that was it. Most people in the expedition had collected more stuff over the years, things they had made or traded for, and the Athosians, who you would think would travel light, had all kinds of junk. Teyla's room looked like a World Market.

Whatever, John didn't have much of anything in his room. It would make it easy on whoever had to pack it up for him.

He went into the next room, a very expensive looking kitchen that didn't look like it had had a lot of use. Mitchell was sitting at the table, drinking coffee and reading the paper. He glanced up a little shyly, and said, "Hi."

"Hey." John hesitated, folding his arms uncomfortably. "Uh, sorry for the... Everything." He had a hazy memory of a phone call from General O'Neill. He was hoping that had been a hallucination.

Mitchell grinned suddenly, as if it was all fairly hilarious. "Don't worry about it."

Mitchell didn't look worried, but something had belatedly occurred to John in the bathroom. "And I know the NID is probably following us... There's no chance they have this place bugged?"

"Nah. Well, they try occasionally." Mitchell nodded toward a little silver ball on the counter, that John had assumed was part of a kitchen appliance. "Asgard countermeasure. It keeps the place private. Also, O'Neill has SGC teams following the NID teams, so they're not going to do anything."

"Cool." John wandered vaguely around the kitchen, wishing Mitchell would give him some indication of whether he wanted John out of here or not. "Uh, I should get back to the hotel."

"I was going to order a pizza," Mitchell said, folding the paper.

Still working on his hangover, John shouldn't be hungry, but the word was enough to evoke a powerful sense memory and his mouth started to water. "Okay."

"Pepperoni, hamburger, anchovies, black olives, onions?" Mitchell asked.

"Yes," John said.

  
***

  
Mitchell ordered the pizza, and in some weird way, it turned into a date. It wasn't like they hadn't been hanging out together in Atlantis, but it was always in a group. This was a little awkward.

Until John wandered over to the TV and saw the black box. "PS3?" he said, startled. It had been weird to think that since he had been gone, Earth had had a war with the Ori and built intergalactic spaceships. So he guessed a new Playstation wasn't that big a shock.

Mitchell scratched his head. "Yeah, it's not like I have much time to-- It was a gift--" He hesitated. "You want to take a look?"

"Yeah." John nodded, trying not to look fourteen.

After that it wasn't awkward. Mitchell admitted to finding _Resident Evil_ too much like work and John agreed, so they played _Grand Theft Auto_ until the pizza arrived. Then they ended up watching ESPNU.

It was getting late, and John reluctantly said, "I should really get back, now." He had to admit that this had been a good idea. He felt a lot more under control now, a lot less likely to go off on somebody. He knew this was just the resignation stage of the five steps of being screwed process, and he expected to loop back around to rage later, but for now it was better this way.

"Yeah," Mitchell said, sounding reluctant too, and like he was admitting to having failed at something. He started collected the pizza box and cups.

John followed him into the kitchen with the plates, thinking, _I need to start mentally detaching here._ From Atlantis and everything it meant, from Rodney, Teyla, Elizabeth, and Beckett, from everybody he had left behind in Pegasus, and from Mitchell and Jackson and the SGC and everything it meant. He wasn't going to be a part of that anymore and the sooner he got used to that, the better. Better being a relative term.

Except Mitchell turned to take the plates, and they were suddenly staring at each other. Mitchell put the plates on the counter, cupped John's face, and kissed him.

It was a hesitant kiss, careful and gentle. And John had never been made out of stone, no matter how hard he tried to be. He slid a hand to the back of Mitchell's neck and deepened the kiss, bit his lower lip gently.

Mitchell made a startled noise and ran his hands down John's sides, squeezed his waist. John moved backward until the table bumped into his thighs and he sat down on it. Leaning over him, pressing his legs apart, Mitchell broke the kiss to nuzzle John's ear, the sensitive skin of his neck. John tugged Mitchell's sweatpants open to slide a hand inside.

John wasn't sure whose idea it was to shift to the floor, but Mitchell pulled him off the table, John grabbed him around the waist and they went down in a heap. John straddled him, Mitchell pulled John's jeans open.

It wasn't like the first time they had done it. It wasn't friendly and leisurely; this was rough and frantic, every touch had a desperate edge to it, and when Mitchell kissed him right before John came, it felt like he was trying to save John's life and failing.

Afterward, John lay on his back, his t-shirt shoved up under his arms and the tiles cool on his back. Sprawled next to him, Mitchell, obviously trying to lighten the mood, said, "I always end up in some weird position with you."

John stared at the underside of the table, and thought about making a joke. Instead he said, "Tell me it won't happen."

There was a long pause. Mitchell took a breath to reply, then stopped. Then he finally said, bitterly, "This is fucked up."

Well, yeah. John let out his breath. _Mentally detach,_ he reminded himself. Even if John did have a chance to see Mitchell on Earth, he shouldn't take it, he shouldn't risk Mitchell's career. O'Neill wasn't immortal, he wouldn't be around forever to turn a blind eye to anything anybody on SG-1 did. "I should get back."

  
***

  
John was sweaty and sticky and he had stubble-burn on his stomach. Mitchell loaned him a clean USC t-shirt, and John rolled his black BDU shirt up and jammed it into a pocket.

They belatedly remembered Mitchell's car was abandoned in the parking lot of O'Malley's Bar and Grill. Mitchell, being Mitchell, wouldn't let John call a cab, and ended up giving John a ride on the back of his motorcycle. The cold air on the drive back cleared John's head.

John had always avoided saying goodbye, it was just too damn hard. In the hotel parking lot, he just said, "See you tomorrow," and walked away.

  
**end**


End file.
